Jane’s face fell a little; and then, as if struck by a fresh thought, she giggled again. I cut the string and opened the parcel to prove the truth of my words, and showed her the red flannel and the wheat-ears, which were to be sown on in letters to form a text. But in the middle was another note, and a box wrapped up in paper, both directed to “Miss Christie;” and at sight of these little Jane’s delight grew irrepressible again. “I knew it!” she began, but stopped herself and said, “I beg your pardon, miss,” and left the room very demurely. But I heard another burst of merriment as she ran downstairs. Then I opened the note; it only said-- “Dear Miss Christie,--I take the liberty of sending you a few late roses from a tree in a sheltered corner where the rain cannot spoil them. I hope they won’t smell of cigars; I could not find a better box. I will call to fetch the text, if you will let me know when I can see you. Yours sincerely, Laurence Reade.” The roses were in a cigar-box, and as long as they lasted they never smelt of anything but tobacco; but I began to think that perfume nicer than their own. I was so happy that evening that I was glad when Mr. Rayner asked me to accompany his violin, and I was glad that he chose operatic selections again, for in the passionate and sweet music of _Don Giovanni_ and _Il Trovatore_ I could give vent to my feelings. I felt that I had never appreciated the beautiful melodies so well, nor helped so efficiently to do justice to them as I did in accompanying Mr. Rayner that night. He was so pleased with my help that he begged me to go on, with “Just one more” and “Just one more,” until long after Mrs. Rayner had gone to her room. I was nothing loath; I could have played till midnight. I did not say much in comment between the pieces, when Mr. Rayner asked, “How do you like that?” But I suppose it was easy to see by my face that I was enjoying the music intensely, for he just nodded and smiled and seemed quite satisfied. The clock had struck the half-hour after ten, which was quite late for the household at the Alders, when he finished playing “_Voi che sapete_.” “And how do you like that?” asked Mr. Rayner as usual, only that this time he put down his violin, and, drawing a chair close to my music-stool, ran his fingers over the keys of the piano, repeating the melody. “Do you know the words? ‘_Voi che sapete che cos’ è amore_,’” he sang softly. “Do you know what that means?” “Oh, yes!” said I, rather proud of showing off my small knowledge of Italian. “‘You who know what love is.’”